


Blurring the Lines

by noxic



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Accidental Confession, First Kiss, Love Confessions, Oneshot, Other, Sappy, Shmoop, this was just too long and too random to put in my other collection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-02
Updated: 2019-12-02
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:21:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21645919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noxic/pseuds/noxic
Summary: Crowley accidentally confesses after dinner one night. Impromptu declaration of love ensues.orA study in the art of blurring the lines between absolutes.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 58





	Blurring the Lines

After the events of Armageddon’t, it takes a while for Crowley to feel secure in the fact that the world isn’t going to spontaneously combust--at least, not without warning.

In the weeks that follow the Day that Never Was, he has to make a conscious effort to wind down, to breathe, to avoid losing his cool whenever there’s a shift in the atmosphere or he loses sight of Aziraphale in a crowd. It takes longer than he’d like to admit for it to stop feeling like Beelzebub is going to spring up behind him at any moment and physically drag him back to hell as Hastur had done before, to face his destruction by the hand of Satan himself.

It’s no small task to cope with the idea of his impending destruction, though he would never admit it. He quite likes having a body and an essence, and some measure of _existence_ even though it can be a pain sometimes. He’d quite miss living in a world with people and coffee and dolphins and 80s television if he were doomed to an eternity in the Pit.

Although, he supposes, if he were destroyed, he wouldn’t miss any of it. There would be no more of him left to miss things. He’d be gone. Period. As if he’d never been there at all.

From his seat at the bookshop counter, Crowley looks over at Aziraphale. The angel looks as contented as ever, gently running an antique feather duster over the shelves that hold his Victorian Romance collection. He suddenly feels cold, and very heavy.

“Hey angel,” he calls out on a whim, desperate to shake off this...intrusive, empty feeling that has suddenly overtaken him. “Wanna get lunch?” Somehow, watching the way Aziraphale’s eyes light up at the offer makes the feeling infinitely better, but also infinitely worse.

Crowley quite likes having existence. He likes that Aziraphale has it even more.

* * *

They’re coming back from the restaurant--a little Mediterranean bistro a few miles away--when he accidentally lets it slip.

“You’ve always got to make a big fuss about everything!” he groans, dramatic and petulant.

Aziraphale huffs. “All I’m saying is that I prefer our usual waitress! She’s well-mannered and kind, and she always remembers my name. The lad who was there today was clearly a new-hire. I only wonder if that means that Susana has left the restaurant entirely…” Crowley shakes his head. Aziraphale sounds genuinely upset by the possibility. _It’s just one human_ , he sort of wants to say--but doesn’t, because that would be cruel, and it’s not what he means anyways. _You only ever saw her maybe once every few months,_ would be a better thing to say, but he figures that Aziraphale has already considered this fact and is still unhappy. More than likely, he just wants to whinge and mope about.

“For Heaven’s sake, angel, you’re lucky I bloody love you, or I would have left you at the restaurant and raided your wine cellar for myself.” Aziraphale stops, and only after a moment of confusion does Crowley realize what he’s done.

He goes entirely cold, and he looks up at Aziraphale to catch the angel’s initial reaction. He looks stunned, which—yeah. But he isn’t scoffing or sneering or running away, so that’s probably a good sign.

“I—,” Crowley tries to offer, but nothing comes out that follows. They’re about a block from the bookshop, and he decides to postpone the conversation until they’re safe within the store, away from listening ears and watching eyes. Aziraphale doesn’t speak as he follows.

“Look, angel,” Crowley tries again. “I didn’t mean to say that…like that. It just slipped out, uh—”

“How did you mean to say it?”

Crowley swallows. “What?”

Aziraphale’s face is placid and cool, like they’re discussing the arrangement of his bookshelves or something equally uninteresting and not— _that_. Crowley can’t read anything in his expression that makes sense, and his cool blue eyes seem simultaneously shaded and exposed, cutting deep into the center of the demon without giving anything of himself away. “If not like this, then how did you mean to say it?”

Crowley has to look away. Is it getting warm in here or is it just him? “Dunno,” he mumbles. “Was gonna make a big thing out of it. I mean I know it’s probably not a big surprise after this long but--” Aziraphale cuts him off.

“How long have you..felt this way, Crowley?” he asks, breathless. Crowley’s gaze lingers on the wet, exposed flesh of his parted lips for just a moment too long to pass for casual before his eyes flick back up to meet Aziraphale’s.

“A while,” he says. His mouth has gone dry and he’s certain now that the angel can’t miss the sound of his heart hammering against his ribcage.

“A while?” Aziraphale repeats. “I’m afraid you’ll have to be more specific, my dear.” The emotion in his voice is unmistakable, and it _burns_ the demon to the core, scorches him in the way that hellfire never could. His desperation to hear this moment validated by time and to know that it isn’t fleeting--his voice is nearly thick with it. All Crowley wants to do is to give him exactly what he wants. Always and forever, that’s what he’s wanted to do. He’s never been very good at _not_ indulging Aziraphale.

But he can’t do it. He can’t bring himself to name a particular day- year- _century_ when he’d first thought of Aziraphale as something more than just an old and precious friend. He doesn’t know what to say--what he _should_ say. But of course, if there’s anything Crowley is good at, it’s talking his way out of difficult situations. So, he just starts talking.

“You know, er,” he begins, breaking eye contact to look over at the shelf where Aziraphale keeps his various old and well-loved religious texts. “Back when we first met, I told you that I didn’t understand what was so bad about knowing the difference between good and evil. And you told me it must’ve been bad if I’d done it, and I told you that you must’ve done the right thing by handing over your sword. But even though we were standing up there, thinking ourselves so clever and above it all, I don’t think either of us really understood what had just happened or what was to come. We were both ready to talk about the difference between good and evil like we understood it, because that’s what angels and demons are all about, yeah? But even after sixty centuries living among the humans, I don’t think we ever got a clear answer on whether we were right or wrong.”

Crowley pauses, gaze shifting to the window of the bookshop. Outside, people stroll past, none of them even acknowledging the storefront despite the heavy traffic of a Saturday afternoon. When he reaches out to place one hand on a nearby shelf, he feels the low hum of celestial magic pulse beneath his fingertips like a strange, muted heartbeat. Aziraphale must be diverting human attention, then. Probably for the best. The angel is still silent, but Crowley can hear the ever-shortening of his non-essential breaths. He’s almost glad he isn’t the only one feeling at a loss for control. He continues.

“Heaven and Hell are all about drawing lines, and even when they work together they see it as crossing borders rather than muddying them. They define themselves by absolutes, and if it were anybody else in the garden that day, I think things might’ve turned out quite differently because of that fact. I think that really, any other demon and any other angel wouldn’t have had to ask.”

He turns to look back at Aziraphale, whose face remains neutral, but hopeful as he listens. The angel has his hands clasped together, white knuckles revealing the tension hidden in his soft lines and neutral pose.

“That was when I first knew,” Crowley admits slowly. “That you were different. And that I was different. And that we might be just a little bit the same.”

He has the sudden urge to conjure up a drink if only for something to do with his hands that isn’t to fidget. He swallows the urge and tells himself that there will be time for that later. “Things just sort of spiraled out of control from that point.”

Aziraphale visibly relaxes, his whole body letting all of his restless energy melt away at once. He lets out a breath through a toothy smile and brings his hands up to his chest, still clasped as if in prayer. “Oh, Crowley…”

The demon feels heat begin to prickle at the tips of his ears. “Aziraphale,” he says with a false sternness that is quickly giving way under the palpable force of the angel’s obvious joy. Crowley stuffs his hands on his pants pockets awkwardly, opting to look anywhere but at Aziraphale’s face. There’s only so much of the angel’s blinding happiness that he can take without breaking into a silly grin of his own, and he has an image to maintain.

But looking away means that he isn’t prepared for Aziraphale to be suddenly closer--so much closer--and pulling his hands free and into his own. Crowley’s face goes bright red, unbidden, and he wonders at how intensely he revels in the feeling of Aziraphale’s skin on his own. Six thousand years is a long time, but he can’t recall more than a few handfuls of occasions where they’ve actually touched like this, unashamedly familiar and open, flesh meeting flesh in a warm singularity. It feels so intimate, and Crowley _burns_ inside, deep and all-encompassing. It’s a feeling he never wants to give up.

“My dear,” Aziraphale says, only inches away from Crowley’s face. The gap between them is so small, and it only seems to be growing smaller. The subtle difference in their height is enough that the angel has to look up from beneath pale lashes to see into Crowley’s serpentine eyes, and the sight is utterly _intoxicating_. When he responds, it comes out half-whispered.

“Angel?”

And Aziraphale closes the gap.

**Author's Note:**

> "blurring the lines" aka smooching


End file.
